Tuesday, December 20, 2011

'Tis The Season...

This is my favorite Christmas story. Similar to my “Father’s Day” piece, I run it every year. To those who have read it before, I make no apologies. To those who are reading it for the first time, it’s all true. There is no moto content in this story. But there is at least one really funny time in a man's life when the bike doesn't play a major role — Jack.

'Tis The Season...

Long before my career in public relations included writing things like congressional testimony, state-of-the-industry speeches, and quotes written expressly for people easily mistaken for cardboard cutouts or bodies seeking reanimation, I earned a living doing the marketing for a roller rink in New Jersey. (I was 26-years-old at the time.) Now this wasn't one of your run-of-the-mill skating facilities left over from the 'forties, but a multimillion dollar disco/singles club for the well-heeled and slick-wheeled. From Thursday through Sunday, indescribably heavenly bodies gyrated and swerved through this place to a throbbing beat that percolated raw sexuality.

But on weekend mornings the place was given over to the three- to seven-year-old-crowd. And in the interests of screwing a dollar out of every conceivable opportunity, some genius decided that nothing would delight this particular demographic more than to have Santa Claus arrive on skates.

"Great," I said. "I'll get a release out to the papers and get started on the ads. What chump are you going to get for the role of Santa Claus?"

Public relations is the story of unending service to the client. Yet the measure of that service is subject to constant change. There are days when your clients hang onto your words as if they were directions from a prophet. And then there are the days when your value is measured by how fast you can get them coffee or clean the toilets.

"Well, we thought you'd do it as part of the seasonal promotion," the roller rink owners said.

"Do I look that stupid?" I asked.

They already had the Santa suit custom tailored for me. Made of crushed velvet and lined with real fur, it was rumored to have cost a grand. (This was in the '70's, when a grand was real money.) The leather belt was four inches wide with a silver buckle. There were real leather pullover boots too. But the best part was the wig and beard. They were all one piece and either made of real hair or silk. Even the little square Ben Franklin glasses were real glass. The costume was gorgeous.

I would be lying if I said I didn't make one hell of an official-looking Santa. I looked more stocky than fat in those days, and gave the impression that jolly old Saint Nick could easily split a cord of wood.

"Help me pull on these boots and we'll be all set," I said to one of the staffers, who was dressed like an elf.

"Boots? The boss said you were to wear roller skates."

"Are you out of your mind?" I asked. "I can't skate. I'm not wearing skates!"

"The boss said that you were to wear skates... That we're supposed to help you out to Santa's throne... And that you were to shut up about it."

The skates were strapped to my feet before I could claw my way out of the room. With an elf on each arm, I was wheeled out into the masses of children. For the first and only time in my life, a collective sigh rose throughout the room at my appearance. (It must be pointed out that the sigh wasn't really for me, but for the person I was impostering. Still, it remains a significant highlight for me.)

I was mobbed by hundreds of little kids who simply wanted to touch my hand, wave to me, or say "Hello." I was dressed like the ultimate "yes-man", who always delivered. True to plan, Santa's elves each put a shoulder against mine, and began pushing me across the carpet to the skating floor.

Santa's throne was an elaborate chair in the center of the skating floor, with fake reindeer standing on each side. As I recall, one of the deer had a flashing red nose. The elves meant well, but I was beginning to accrue a bit of mass in those days (though nothing like my present size). The wheels of my skates were digging into the carpet and encountering substantial resistance. The elves later claimed it was like wheeling a howitzer through a swamp. They were really putting their backs into it when my skates hit the hard wooden floor.

My mass went from glacial progress to runaway horse speed in an instant.

I broke free from my moorings and shot across the floor at about 40 miles per hour. Arms flailing, I took out the deer with the flashing nose and smashed into the throne with a loud "wham!"

"You missed the other deer," said an elf, who was laughing so hard he could barely stand up. "You want to try again and see if you can pick up the spare?"

Ten minutes later -- with the deer and the throne back in place -- I started listening to the dreams and hopes of about 1200 kids. I began each interview with the same litany: "Ho... Ho... Ho... What's your name? Have you been good this year? Do you listen to your parents? Do you do your homework? Do you share with your friends?"

The responses were the standard boilerplate lies, followed by the presentation of the Christmas lists with few variations. Most were memorized and delivered as one constant flowing word. "I want a bicycle-football-tape recorder-guitar-racing-cars-and a G.I.Joe." A small percentage of kids came with written lists, complete with their addresses and directions to their respective homes, so there'd be no mistake on the morning of the 25th. Some froze and forgot what they had to say. One or two cried. And I will never forget the little girl who laughingly buried her face in my beard, repeating "Sanna, Sanna" over and over again.

At the peak of this holiday networking, a bigger than average kid climbed into my lap. This one seemed kind of old to be pushing the Santa gimmick, but I figured he wanted to hedge his bets as the zero hour drew near."

We went through the routine with me playing the straight man and kid being the ventriloquist's dummy. He had just finished the gift inventory, when he suddenly said, "But you won't bring any of this stuff to me. You won't come to my house on Christmas."

"My God," I thought. "What horror story does this poor kid have at home?" I imagined a divorce in progress... Sickness... Parents out of work... Perhaps even the death of a parent...

"Why do you say that?" I asked.

"Because I'm Jewish. I don't believe in you. You're just a fat man in a red suit. I'm going to pull your beard off in front of everyone."

"Ho... Ho... Ho," I laughed, positively relieved. This was a job for a true public relations specialist, trained to make folks instantly see the bright side. I leaned over and whispered in his ear, "You touch this beard and I'm going to drop kick your ass halfway across the floor."

I fired off another "Ho... Ho... Ho...," for the benefit of the general public. "You'll get everything I promised," I said out loud to the kid. He scrambled from my lap and backed away, never taking his eyes from Santa's feet.

I figure that kid is about 40-years-old today. I wonder if he gets as many laughs from that story as I do. I wish I knew where he was now. I'd buy him a drink.

34 comments:

I want a shiney new BMW R1200R, with side cases, top box, heated grips, GPS, crash bars, engine covers, riding lights, tank bang, cruise control, bluetooth systems OR . . . I'll yank your . . ., and kick you in the shins. If you run out of R1200r's, you can sub a Triumph 800.

Dear Jack:The kid is now head of the Mossad, and he is looking for you, too. He wants to buy you a salt water based drink at Sunset Beach. Wishing you joys of the season. May the real Santa slide down your chimney and deposit something special in your stocking.Your riding buddy,

I have two close friends who routinely call each other by that affectionate term. One is my cardiologist. I call him "Sir." The other is Dick Bregstein. He is so famous, he likes to be referred to in a manner similar to Donald Trump. So I call him "The Dick."

I was thinking of the image you'd cut, riding around on a VESPA, with a flame-red winter coat trimmed in ermine. It would almost be worth the trouble of getting you the coat just to get a shot of you for Twisted Roads.

I think you've probably read this story before, but it is the only clean Christmas story that I have to tell. (I was once dumped by a woman that I was madly in love with on Christmas Eve, but it took four years to get over that.)

You'll want to read my pre-Christmas Eve story this year though. You're in it.

It was a first read for me. This story, oddly, makes me miss the kids at the preschool where I used to work, but just the kids, not the work or crazy, frenetic existence that came along with it. The little sanna girl really warmed my heart.

Of course, that was a Jewish preschool, and for better or worse, every one of those kids (with the possible exception of a Hassidic boy, sweet kid that he was) expected expected the big man to make an appearance - even after 8 days of chaunkah. The world changes. Nice read, short, sweet, and inspires smiling. Great for the season.

I spoke with your brother this morning. I got his number from my sister. (These remarks will start to look very interesting to my readers.) I gave him my cell number to hand off to you, and said you should call if you weren't washing your hair, or cleaning the toilet, or anything.

He said, "Fat chance, Jack. The odds that my sister is reading your shit is so small it wouldn't show up in a forensic lab." Then he gave a sinister laugh, and hung up.

Your brother has my cell number. Give me a ring as soon as the toilet is clean enough for the black dog to drink from.

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About Me

BMW Rider, humor writer, and and a public relations specialist to the business travel sector, I have made a career out of telling it like I see it for the past 30 years! A member of the mileage-crazed Pennsytlvania-based Mac-Pac, my motorcycle stories have been published in various venues, and in the BMW Motorcycle Owners of America's monthly publication — the Owners News. I am also the author of "Politically Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists," a book on men's sensitivity.